someone called my talking style different
she could tell i spoke with the diction of an artist
a writer, perhaps
but i always thought i was the same old kind of child searching mindlessly to be caught in an internal chirographic trap
i can’t write but i try,
and thank you for noticing.

someone’s talking love on a summer night
i sit and wonder why you were the only thought that came to mind
like cigarettes to a reminiscer of about 50 times ago, when they almost quit
i think october, when words came from my lips like diamonds—they were ugly in my mind, but i spit them out
and you called me pretty
when mixes from that year turn around and crackle softly i can’t help but miss the tears that lamented so long ago
when i could feel about you
i won’t pretend to understand those mindless fancies, but i see then that ocean which reflects the moon
and play clair de lune, which
i avow to do for you but it’s for me—
i’m playing to forget, or feel
that’s what we players do
money and music, it’s numbing or galvanizing; it’s up to selection
i’m losing the latter but it sometimes catches up with me
the hotness that rolls in waves or in a fast descant,
tears
and then i remember for one moment in the summer after two years
how it felt to cry and to be fettered by you

pretty american houses
pretty bays
and boys and happenings
hidden dreams fly out like smoke, in rings, in threes
candled wishes don’t go far—
but i don’t know about these dancing stars
twinkling, aren’t they?
the eyes of God
that bestow heavied wonders
on the shore
underneath the doors
of those pretty american
beach house floors
stars, wished on with this treasured heart
of yours
it’s ethereal, your existence
your words are like the sea
i hear them roar when i’m asleep
i love you still i love you

Magazine cutouts
I’m muddled
My favorite time of day is when there’s pink, gold, and violet
Setting light over a stratosphere
Cut out a picture of me and keep it, please
There’s more to life than what you think you see
There’s a rose-colored glass over life, but keep it, please
You don’t wanna think about the sad, the bare, the lonely
Just remember the radiance, sunsets, and me
There’s nothing but clouds and blue-rayed skies here
Blue, and violet now
Fading to black
You always make sure
To remember the color—stop at the roses
Look up or you just might miss it

writing drives me mad but i do it
for reasons i don't know, still
i'm mad at the world and art is the escape trail
like you sort of
used to be

cracked poets still shine
through lines—of hymns
and of smiling crow’s feet
clams look dull but I know what might be
and you do too

tanned thighs
perfect music and perfect laughs
your house sits on the hill where the bay lies
grassy and stretching down to where the water runs like a marathon medalist or a
tidal pool circling around to reach its tail
you tail me too, when we chase each other on these fine white sands
tail me, I dare you,
get me, adore me
like you do at 3 in the morning when you have me on the counter to sing to and look at me
fanned nights, palms in the sticky air of a summer evening
spread like cards on the low table
heat simmering like breakfast at 4, which we take with us
to have on cracking shells and blacked feathers along the shore
I see your skin, soft, pulling sand—your fingers—sifting beaches, straining them easily
warmer than the sun—your eyes
august nights that bring the fight into you
you’re talking nonsense, but it makes perfect sense because it’s you
rosy cloud matter hangs above ‘till I’m under glass surfacetops, at the bottom of the sea
but I wake up just above it
to be a floater—streaming boater girl, always
really, just watching you, down with another, passion firing your eyes, unlocked
I watch as I do butterflies
wild and free to fly
it’s okay, I told you
you’re suntanned and you’re mad
you’re talking, like you do
but it’s okay
because you’re free